It
all began in Paris, in 1964. Six months earlier I had begun working on a
kids' photo-book and I had just finished it. My next job was to be
in Spain - another kids' photo-book - so before I left, some friends I
had made while working on the book, had organized a going-away gathering
for me. We met in the very old, very cold, very French apartment
of a friend-of-a-friend. My hostess turned out to be one of the
most important people in my life. That was because she invited me to an
upcoming Christmas party she was going to give...in a place called
Ibiza. I had never heard of a place called Ibiza. Not even
the Hippies had got the word about it in 1964. I had heard of
Palma, of course. Everybody had heard of Palma. But only
in-people had ever heard of Ibiza in those days. I had the feeling it
was a very well kept French secret. And, when I finally got there,
I knew I was right. It was a jewel of a secret.

It
started badly enough. I found myself befuddled - and more and more
anxious about missing the ship. I was moving very slowly in a
dense dockside maze of the Barcelona port area. I was searching
for the ship to Ibiza. It was a pitch black night. Rain was
crashing down. Thunder and lightning were everywhere. The
street lights were hopeless; few and far between, blinding but failing
to illuminate. Like other prowling cars, I was lost, swallowed up
by the storm. In my headlights I saw only gleaming, rain-drenched
asphalt and endless dead ends. I was driving a small black car
with the motor in the rear, a Renault 8. In my front boot and in
the back seat were all my worldly possessions. Most important of
these was my little grey Schnauser, Flipper. He kept nuzzling me,
and whining, looking for reassurance. I told him again and again
that everything was OK, but he didn't believe me. Just when things
looked worse than impossible, just when I was sure I was going to miss
the sailing, help arrived. A bulky figure in dripping black
storm-gear suddenly appeared at my window like an apparition. He
guided me to, and then up, a broad, clanging gangplank. That was
how Flipper and I found ourselves in the cavernous hold of a huge
Trasmediterranea Ferry. We were on our way to that island called
Ibiza.

Of
the overnight passage, the less said the better. But that awful
time had a hidden virtue, notwithstanding its burden of misery.
That ugliest and blackest of nights gave way to the breathless,
ethereal, morning beauty of a lovely island, a contrast so volcanic that
it is etched forever in my memory. Ibiza: green hills, white
villas nestled randomly in their folds, the sea lapping on powder-white
sandy beaches, Ibiza glowing in blue-green water, with so limpid,
smiling sunlight falling on it, the light seemed alive. Ibiza
levitated out of the mist as any heavenly apparition might slowly
announce itself. It was without pretence, without flamboyance,
without sound. It was pure. Pure, pure, pure. It was
an unspoiled, genuine, visionary appearance. I shall never forget
that moment.

Ah, in the perfumed air the flowers bloom,
And blooming thus, there is everywhere
A song so sweet, so loving and so fair,
It sings to all of us, outlawing any gloom!

Oh,
the harbour, oh the docking! There among the white hillside houses
crowding down to the Port itself, there in that beautiful natural
harbour with lovely rolling green hills all 'round - except to the east,
where the sea remained in charge - there with the Old Town rising
majestically to its Cathedral crown, there with a great man-made mole
jutting two hundred meters into the entrance, there our great ship just
barely managed to edge safely alongside Ibiza's only wharf. It
took almost a full hour to skilfully and patiently manoeuvre the vessel
into its appointed place. The dockside was crowded with cheering
people waving greetings, shouting greetings, jumping greetings, calling
out endearing names, throwing kisses. The passengers were crowded
to the ship's rails doing the same. There was a furious hubbub of
excitement, an atmosphere of delight, good natured impatience, and of
happiness. But most of all there was a communal feeling of public
welcome to private arrivals. There was, in short, a grand
homecoming shout to all. Including Flipper who couldn't contain
himself, barking his head off, just like everybody else. But
somehow, in the general confusion, Flipper disappeared. I didn't
notice, because I was so busy with something else.

Since there was no roll-on, roll-off facility in the port, my small car,
with all its precious personal and photo cargo still inside, was hoisted
slowly and precariously from the hold. Suspended in a sturdy cargo
net, it was swung high offside, and then gently, safely, lowered to the
dock. While this breath holding scenario was in progress the
seamen on the winches controlling the operation, smilingly cooperated
with my frantic effort to get photos from underneath the car.
Standing on the dock and shooting straight up from beneath it, I
photographed my car as it hung helplessly in its spider's web of heavy
nautical rope. I shot ten, perhaps twenty frames from this
spectacular perspective while the men held the car as still as they
could. A crowd had gathered around me, but not near me.
Everyone stood clear. But everyone was fascinated by the
photographic goings on. Only I was directly underneath the slowly
rotating car. Suddenly Flipper's head and shoulders appeared in
the driver's window. Slowly he looked down - and barked.
Swiftly, I got the shot! There was Flipper and car, high above,
shot from under the car. The crowd went mad. They shouted, they
applauded, and the whole town knew that Flipper had arrived. That
I had, too, they learned later.